


A Taste Of Disorder

by Vérë (Weltenweber)



Series: His Greatest Achievement [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Everyone - fear the House of Fëanor!, Gen, Humor, Pranking for a higher cause, Unconventional Methods of Motivation, Valinor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 18:47:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16561280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weltenweber/pseuds/V%C3%A9r%C3%AB
Summary: "An angry Fëanor was never a good thing. And an angry Fëanor who yelled for his sons was a disaster waiting to happen."In which Fëanor gets fed up with the inaction of the Valar and decides to take matters into his own hands.





	A Taste Of Disorder

**Author's Note:**

> Soo...I've finally finished this. This time that was a rather difficult one. I struggled quite a bit because I wanted to explain the reasons for their actions properly, but in the end I gave up and let the story write itself. Sometimes it's better not to force things and just let them flow. Especially when we are all here to enjoy ourselves. =)

Fëanor was angry. That was actually not something unusual. He tended to get angry over something at least trice a day. He was the son of fire, after all. His temper had always burned brightly. But this time it was not something simple like a spilled cup of tea that had spiked his ire. No. It was something of a greater magnitude.

Fëanor was simply fed up with that happy-go-lucky atmosphere that seemed to have infected the entire island. It was not that he a problem with happily smiling elves, it was just that monotony that irked him. The stagnancy of development. The complete disinterest in anything new. Every day they did just the exact same thing.

Standing up, singing, eating, singing, doing some work, singing, eating, singing, celebrating, singing and finally going to bed only to start the same circle anew the very next morning. It was maddening.    

But that was not even what angered him most. The worst of all were those completely inapt Valar. They were the self-proclaimed gods after all. And yet they did absolutely nothing besides discussing irrelevant things. They just sat there and let themselves be worshiped by overly naive elves Fëanor vehemently denied kinship with. The last time he had checked in to see what they were doing, they had been in the middle of discussing the placement of a vase on the windowsill of all things!

A vase! There was an entire continent out there that they were supposed to protect and they spent their time debating a vase!

So yes, Fëanor was rightfully angry. And an angry Fëanor was never a good thing.

"MAITIMO! Get your brothers! We're having a meeting!"

And an angry Fëanor who yelled for his sons was a disaster waiting to happen.

~*~

They were spread out in the living room. Casually lounging on chairs or leaning against the wall, forming a loose circle around their furiously pacing father.

Their faces were alight with curiosity and in case of Makalaurë and Maitimo, mild concern. The last time they had seen their father so enraged it had ended in them swearing an oath that had nearly doomed them all. So they were slightly apprehensive about Fëanors intentions.

"We have to do something.", Fëanor started passionately. "Things can not continue like this."

Makalaurë, probably the most sensible of them all tilted his head. "What has you so angered, Atar?"

"Everything!", Fëanor grumbled.

"Well that is a rather vast topic.", Maitimo interjected. "Could you please elaborate?"

"Fine." Fëanor huffed and gesticulated towards the window. "Nothing ever happens here. Everyone just does the same thing every day. Nothing changes. Everything is at a complete standstill!"

Curufinwë let out a thoughtful hum. "Now that you mention it...things are really monotone around here."

"Yes.", Carnistir agreed. "I can't recall anything interesting happening lately."

"Lately?!", Fëanor snorted. "More like never! This entire island needs to wake up! Especially those Valar who just sit around and ignore the rest of the world!"

There was a murmur of agreement around the room.

"This is not going to involve another oath, right? Because we already did that once.", Maitimo asked skeptically.

"Yes. Lots of dead elves, remember?", The twins supplied helpfully.

Fëanor grumbled something unintelligible and waved his hands. "Yes, yes. I know. Been there, done that. No, there will be no oath involved."

His sons sighed in relief.

"So.", Tyelkormo finally asked the question Fëanor had been waiting for. "What do you intend to do father?"

Fëanor grinned dangerously. "Livening things up, of course."

~*~

An earth-shattering scream startled Manwë out of his chair. Cursing quietly at the disruption, he put down his poetry book. It seemed like an investigation was in order. He just hoped it was not something ridiculous. The last time he had heard someone scream like that was when Varda had decided to pay Fëanor a visit. His poor wife still suffered from panic-attacks when someone mentioned Formenos. The lack of light around that place had just shocked her too deeply. Even more so, because Fëanor kept rejecting her demands to put up the gigantic oversized lanterns she continued to gift him with. Honestly, that elf was just too difficult to deal with.

At least this time the scream had been male, so Fëanor would most likely not be involved. What ever had happened, could not be  _that_ bad.

~*~

It was bad. Very bad. Manwë had just entered the scene and he was already getting a headache.

There, in front of him, stood an enraged Turgon, surrounded by his subjects and pointed disbelievingly at was used to be his "impressively mighty gate that could even withstand the strongest of foes." Just yesterday evening he had bragged about it again over a wine or three. And now that.

Turgon's greatest pride and joy had been neatly painted in a deep crimson. 

~*~

Manwë had barely managed to calm down the almost hyperventilating elf, when a second even louder scream rang through the air. The king of the Valar groaned, summoned his trusted herald to deal with the gate situation and went to see what had happened now.

He completely missed the fair-haired elf smirking after him, a dripping brush in his hand.

~*

Someone had replaced Oromë 's entire hunting equipment. Instead of his trusted bow was a piece of corrosive, charred wood, a loose string hanging from one end. His arrows were blunt and badly shaped. His sword two pieces of metal bound together; and to top it all, there was a small booklet sitting innocently on his bedside table. Oromë had taken one incensed look at the title and thrown it into the fire. "How to finally hit your target - A hunting guide for beginners." burned brightly.

It took them two hours of desperate searching to finally find the missing weapons. They had somehow ended up in Oromë's sock drawer.

 Two almost identical elves grinned at each other and left quietly. Their part was done.

~*~

Manwë was exhausted. First the gate incident, then having to run around for two hours straight. He needed a break.

But just as Manwë was about to sit down, a third scream pierced the air. He closed his eyes and exhaled loudly. Not again. Annoyed at the constant interruptions of his wonderfully peaceful life, he went to investigate, his head starting to throb painfully.

~*~

Námo waved the book in Manwës face. "Written over, Manwë. Completely written over!"

"I see, Námo.", Manwë answered calmly, taking a step back from the irate death god.

  
"That is an outrage!", Námo exclaimed heatedly, walking up and down in agitation, then stopped abruptly and whirled around to face Manwë.

 

"' ** **Lifeless****.' It says. ' ** **No burning passion****.' It says.", he snapped. "Just what part of _'A leaf is falling down, on a muddy ground so brown_ '. Is lifeless?! I'm clearly mentioning a leaf here! And what is wrong with:  _The room is covered in dust, so I remind myself, dust I must_?!"

Well. Everything. Manwë thought dryly. But he would not tell Námo that. "I don't understand it either. I think your poems are really...unique. Those comments on them really are rather harsh."

And in his desperate attempts to placate Námo, Manwë never saw the harp-carrying elf watching from a tree, a mischievous smile on his face.

~*~

The fourth scream was almost expected. Manwë only sighed resignedly and went to find his wife. There was no mistaking _that_ voice after all.

~*~

Varda was staring at her room, completely horrified. Her wonderful bright and white interior - was gone! Just gone. Instead in a room filled with oversized glowing lanterns she found herself in a dark, empty dungeon. And what was worse. There were flickering torches on the wall. Torches! With real fire. If there was one thing Varda feared almost as much as darkness, it was fire. What if Morgoth emerged out of the flame?!

In her haste to light up the dark, she created a light so intense that Manwë fled the room, thoroughly blinded.

Someone was definitively out to get him, he thought tiredly, as he waited for his vision to return to him and his headache to subside.

Being temporally handicapped, he completely missed the dark-haired elf cheerfully sauntering down the mountain path.

~*~

Manwë had barely regained his bearings, when he heard the fifth scream. This day was really getting to him. He hadn't had such an eventful time in centuries. Or was it a millennium?

Well, however long it was, he was still the king and it was his duty to solve problems.

So he counted slowly to ten and proceeded to force himself up.

~*~

Vaire's yarn had been locked away. She usually kept it sorted by color and thickness in several ornate boxes. Right now, however, those boxes were wide open and empty.

Manwë looked around and immediately saw the gigantic beautifully-crafted chest in the middle of the room and went to examine it. It was a masterpiece. His gaze caught a piece of parchment on the floor next to it. He picked it up. There were only four words on it.

**_'Impatience fans the flame.'_ **

But Manwë understood. And went to work.

Being solely focused on the lock, he completely overlooked a rather small, but very telling star on the bottom of the chest.

It took him four hours to break the complicated lock without setting of its fiery defense.

Seeing Manwë finally leaving Mandos, a smaller-than-usual elf departed with a very pleased smile on his face. It was almost time.

~*~

Manwë was more then ready to end this day. It had been a disaster. He was now more then convinced that someone was out to get him. But who? Who could have anything against him? Who would paint Turgon's gate? Who would actually dare to prank him and the other Valar?

There was a nagging feeling in his stomach, like he was overlooking something important, but before he could explore if further, he got interrupted by screaming and lost his train of thought.

~*~

Chaos. That was the only way to describe it. Elves were running everywhere, jumping around, and hiding behind stalls.

Someone had set off a firework in the middle of the market place. It was crackling and fizzling everywhere. Multicoloured sparks whizzed around, raining on everyone and everything.

Manwë really felt like crying.

A tall red-haired elf went to fetch his family. It was time.

~*~

A Vanya saw them first. He whispered to the elf next to him, who whispered to another and suddenly the market place became silent.

Confused at the sudden silence of the former panicked elves, Manwë turned around to see what had caused it and groaned. Wonderful. Just what he was missing on this already cursed day. The house of Fëanor in its full glory.

Well, he thought dryly, at least everyone is quiet now.

The elves of Aman were still a bit apprehensive around those eight elves. But since the house of Fëanor rarely came to town and mostly kept to itself, there had yet to be any major problems.

Which brought him to another point. "Fëanáro.", he greeted tiredly. "What are you doing here?"

Fëanor took his time to answer and instead savored the appearance of the man in front of him. He actually looked exhausted. Good.

He gave Manwë a bright grin. "I came to watch you working, of course. It is rare to see you so busy."

~*~

Manwë's face turned dark at that insinuation. He opened his mouth to give a rather sharp answer, when it suddenly hit him. The one thing that had been eluding him all long.

A  _crimson_ gate.

 _Charred_ wood.

 _Burning_ passion.

Flickering  _torches_

_A fanning flame._

Sizzling  _firework_.

He finally made the connection. All those things were directly or indirectly related to...

" ** _fire_**...",he whispered quietly and stared at Fëanor.

"You!", he accused finally. "You were behind this all! It's your fault I had to run around the entire day solving - "

"- problems?", Fëanor interrupted calmly. "Looking out for your people? Doing your _job_ as king?"

A small smirked played around his lips. "My, it seems like you finally did something  _productive_. Keep going this way and there  _might_ be hope for you yet."

His smile turned dangerous. "Of course my sons and I will always be happy to _help you along._ "

~*~

The rumors spread like wildfire. Tales of this days event quickly reached even the remotest corners of Aman. While Fëanor had not admitted his deeds and nothing could be proven, it  was soon known far and wide that the house of Fëanor had dared to prank not only one, but five of the Valar. And got off scot-free.

And thus a renewed fear of the house of Fëanor spread among the elves of Valinor. But this time it was not one of death and destruction, but of chaos and disorder.


End file.
